


I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love with You

by jackintheboxx



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Inception, Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackintheboxx/pseuds/jackintheboxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Arthur joins the dream business, before the Inception job, Eames and Arthur see each other in a crowded bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love with You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pre-Inception story of Eames seeing Arthur before he joins the crew. Inspired heavily by the song, “I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love with You” by Tom Waits. Hope you like it!

The neck of the beer bottle was a cold comfort for Eames’s fingertips, as he traced the glass ridges in an effort to keep himself focused on something. The bar was too loud that night. His thoughts were too muddled, too busy. Eames’s mind was still in the mind of someone else. Some jobs he just couldn’t shake off, no matter how many times he could say, “It’s just a job.” 

The heels of his hands pressed into his eyelids a bit too harshly. He was trying to rub the nerves away without plunging a hand into his pocket and fiddling with the poker chip that kept him grounded. He liked touching what was real; the beer bottle, the bar counter, his face.

As Eames pulled his hands away from his face, he stared directly at the door. A group of university kids came inside in a bundle, laughing and pushing against one another. There was a young man to the left of the group, chuckling along yet not quite all there. He rubbed the back of his neck in quiet discomfort. His dark hair and dark eyes allowed him to mesh into the crowd, unnoticed. 

Eames had found something to direct his attention to. He had been people-watching all night, men and women; even stopped to talk to a few of them. Fleeting relationships were another comfort for him. He liked the burn of skin against skin, and the feeling that was left over when the fingertips drifted away. It was comfortable. 

The university group had made their way around to the array of barstools. Eames couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the thought that probably half of them had badly printed fake IDs. He’d been there, done that and couldn’t really blame them. 

The chair beside Eames was empty, and he noticed that the young man was hovering near his seated friends. He would smile when they diverted their conversation to him, but otherwise seemed preoccupied with glancing around the room. He had an untouched beer resting against his stomach and a pack of cigarettes poking out of his jean pocket. 

A quick, orange flash reflected in the dripping glass of Eames’s beer. He glanced back to the young man, who was cradling a lighter between both hands with a cigarette pressed between his lips. Eames mused that the action seemed out-of-character for this young man he’d never spoken to. It seemed like a nervous habit. He tossed the mouthful of smoke over his shoulder, away from the line of friends. 

At that moment, Eames was craving a cigarette. He hadn’t had one in a month or so, not having the patience to feed the addiction. He could get up and ask for one. He had done that many times before, able to politely and cheekily bum a free cigarette from an intriguing person and manage to capture their attention. However, the space between them seemed too large of a distance that night. He didn’t need one, anyway. 

The young man had completely turned away from the party he had arrived with. His back was facing them, as he watched a couple of women dancing to the blaring Bon Jovi song. He seemed amused. He would turn every so often to flick the end of his quickly burning cigarette on the ashtray perched at the corner of the bar counter. 

Eames slid his focus back to the beer encircled in his hands. The condensation on the inanimate object was not as appealing as the nameless figure who had managed to retain Eames’s focus, despite doing nothing in particular. Eames found his eyes leaving the beer bottle and finding the dark eyes looking at him. 

The young man grinned, blowing a cloud of smoke above his head. The moment was short-lived, but felt like an hour. Eames felt like his eyes were burning from lack of blinking enough. 

One of the young man’s friends got up from the stool beside him. A part of Eames’s brain that he could not silence was hoping that the young man would not gesture to the empty seat beside him. The distance was safe. 

“Hey. Hey, man,” the bartender’s gruff voice shook Eames out of his momentary stupor, “you done with that? We’re gonna close soon.” He was vigorously toweling off the line of sudsy mugs that were set in a line in front of Eames. He looked a bit peeved, having little tolerance for Eames’s lack of concentration. 

“Oh, um, sure.” He pushed the half-filled beer bottle to meet the bartender’s hand. He hadn’t even realized how late it was, the 4 o’clock time across the room a blaring reminder. 

Eames turned, and the college group had disappeared. The young man was nowhere to be found. The last bit of him was in the stamped out cigarette in the dirty ashtray. Eames found himself glancing around the room, hoping to catch one more sight of him. 

A heavy sigh swelled his chest. He rubbed at his eyes. “Actually, mate,” he grumbled. “Can I have one more? I know it’s last call for drinks.” 

The young man’s grin was embedded into his vision, and no matter how many times he pressed against his eyes, the image was still there.


End file.
